


Rosie

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-defiant parentlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Murder Victims, Scotland Yard, Serial Killer, The Dancing Devil - Freeform, non-graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: A serial killer is on the loose, and although they've been chasing him for days, he's stayed just one step ahead of Sherlock, John and the rest of the Yarders. A sudden lead takes them to a quiet house in Dulwich village, but a different sort of surprise awaits them there.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes - Relationship, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 28
Kudos: 71
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Rosie

Whenever Sherlock thinks about the night of June 23rd, the delicate scent of _Rosa rubignosa_ is woven throughout, like a singular olfactory strand braided into the tapestry of the memory. Other details - the exact shade of the carpet, the precise wording of conversations exchanged - have slipped through the cracks of his mind palace like sand slipping through his fingers, but the impression of the perfumed air as his eyes lit upon the tiny figure of his daughter, asleep in her crib and oblivious to the horrors of her newborn world, would stay with him forever.

* * *

John glanced over at his partner in the back of the police car as it sped along the dark streets of London. To the casual observer, Sherlock looked completely sharp and alert - spine rigid against the worn seat, eyes fixed straight ahead, fingers steepled under his chin. But John, and John alone, could spot the tell-tale signs of exhaustion in his lover and friend. He could see the slight squint of his eyes, the minute tremor of his fingers and the crease forming between his eyebrows. He could tell that the detective was pressing his lips together in an effort to keep them from trembling, worried that he had been too slow and they would be too late. For four days, they had tracked a serial killer known as the Dancing Devil, named for the dancing stick-figure drawings he left at each crime scene. For days, Sherlock had been tearing out his own hair trying to make sense of the sketches to no avail. But all had changed that evening, when a detective in another county had contacted Sherlock to let him know that he’d intercepted an email containing identical stick figures to the ones found at the crime scenes. There had been a whole line of them this time, and Sherlock had figured out that they were a code, an encrypted message pointing to the location of the next victim. Wasting no time, Sherlock and John had rushed from the conference room of NSY, knocking over styrofoam cups of stale coffee in their haste, and shouting to Lestrade to follow. Despite Sherlock’s protests, Lestrade had insisted they take his patrol car, as it would surely be faster than trying to navigate a cab through the late Friday night traffic. 

It was less than twenty minutes before they turned into the peaceful poshness of Dulwich Village, on a lovely street lined with trees and manicured gardens. They arrived at the house just as the team rushed to cover all the exits, buzzing with adrenaline and ready to close this case. Sherlock, John and Lestrade ran in behind them, but were met not with the murderer, but the blank stare of his next two victims, a man and a woman, stabbed to death on the kitchen lino. Sherlock froze in the doorway. He gripped his hair, muttering, eyes wild. From his spot behind Sherlock, John could see that the killer was getting even bolder with his signature stick figures. These had been drawn in blood on the wall. 

“No. NO! Stupid, stupid, too slow. I was too slow!”

John took a hesitant step towards him, but the detective whirled around, looking frantic. They heard heavy steps and turned in unison as the front door slammed open. Two officers trudged in with their guns lowered, shaking their heads.

“Not ‘ere. Bugger!” 

Lestrade motioned to the rest of the team to begin the arduous process of securing the crime scene. John watched as Sherlock paced the small first floor of the house, probing around windows and doors and peering intently at the floor. Suddenly, he spun in a circle and sprinted to the main staircase. John heaved a sigh and counted to ten before following him. He knew the other man was running on fumes at this point, but would be remiss to be reminded that his transport was not, in fact, indestructible. Eventually, he’d simply fall over from exhaustion and hunger. John checked his watch. He’d give him an hour and then he’d drag him home if he had to. Once at the top of the stairs, he paused on the landing to listen. Silence. His heart leapt to his throat and the sudden surge of adrenaline made his feet and hands instantly cold. He inched his fingers around to the back of his jeans and pulled out his Sig, switching off the safety and securing it against his chest in one swift movement, finger off the trigger. He crept along the wall, trodding carefully on the wood floor. 

“Sherlock!?” He hissed, not daring to raise his voice louder than a whisper. When he didn’t receive an answer, he pushed open the first door and spun around, gun drawn. “Sherlock! Answer me, you git!” His voice was louder this time, volume rising in tune with his growing panic. His heart pounded as he tiptoed to the second door, which was slightly ajar. He could see a faint light glowing from within. Swallowing hard, he pushed the door open all the way and was stopped in his tracks by Sherlock’s whisper. 

“John.” 

John stood frozen with his hand still on the smooth wood of the door. He had never heard Sherlock’s voice like this. It sounded broken, fragile, devastated. He stepped fully into the room and spotted Sherlock, standing motionless in the center of what appeared to be a bedroom. The soft glow he had spotted from the hall was coming from a night light in the shape of a lightning bolt, plugged into the wall behind a padded rocking chair. A snowy stuffed owl perched contentedly on the plush seat, seeming to guard the room with his wise, plastic eyes. The glow from the night light illuminated a matching changing table and dresser, blonde oak with pastel knobs. And in the exact center of the far wall, inches from where Sherlock was still standing transfixed, was a crib hidden partially in shadows. John took another hesitant step towards his love, no longer worried about his safety, but starting to be concerned about his health. Surely, the exhaustion was catching up to him, now that the rush of adrenaline was gone. John’s eyes felt heavy too, as he reached out and touched his shoulder. He squeezed it reassuringly when he felt Sherlock flinch as if startled from a daze. 

“Hey. Are you --” 

John’s whisper was cut off when he drew up next to Sherlock and followed his wide-eyed stare. Bundled in the crib was a tiny baby, no older than three or four months. Her dark blonde curls fluffed around her head like a halo and her little rosebud mouth was suckling ever so slightly. Her hands were relaxed, curled gently and resting near her cheek and her eyes were closed. 

“John.” All the air seemed to leave Sherlock at once as he repeated his partner’s name, and he sagged, shoulders shaking. Puzzled, John wound his arm around the taller man’s waist and guided him to the rocking chair. He was properly concerned now - all the color seemed to have drained out of Sherlock’s face and he was breathing little shuddery breaths. John squatted down so he was eye level with him, automatically assessing, but Sherlock’s eyes never left the tiny figure asleep in the crib. John spoke quietly but firmly, stroking Sherlock’s hand where he held it between his own palms. 

“I’ll go let Lestrade know about the baby...and then we’ll get you home and to bed. You look ready to fall over.” He kissed his detective on the forehead and stood, wincing as his knees creaked and groaned. Sherlock didn’t give him any indication that he had heard anything he had said, which wasn’t unusual. With a last glance back over his shoulder, John strode back downstairs to let the DI know about their discovery. As soon as possible, he planned to whisk Sherlock home, where he’d make them both a proper cuppa and collapse into bed. 

* * *

Sherlock knew he was still alive because his senses were still cataloguing data, subconsciously filing it away for later inspection. However, he had been unable to move for several minutes, unable to tear his eyes away from the pink bundle curled up in the crib, so small and innocent. Pain thudded behind his eyes and in his chest, keeping rhythm with the words repeating in his head like a mantra - _too slow, too slow, stupid, stupid, stupid._ He blinked as another sound crept into his consciousness, making its way through the filter this time. A snuffle and a whimper. A tiny sniff. He blinked again and realized that the pink bundle was moving - wriggling and working her mouth as she made tiny sounds. Without thought, he was on his feet and moving towards the crib, arms already outstretched. He scooped her up as though he handled babies every day, treating her as he would a delicate instrument or a fine specimen. Moving back to the rocking chair, he cradled her against his chest, bouncing and swaying as he walked. With one large hand, he gently patted her back as he eased himself back down to the cushioned seat. She let out a squawk and he hummed, low and deep in his chest. Hesitantly, he rested his cheek against her soft curls and let his eyes fall shut. His chest constricted painfully as an unwelcome thought slammed into his brain. This little thing, this precious bundle wrapped in his arms was an orphan now, lost in a world without her parents because he had been too slow. He hadn’t figured out the code quickly enough and now she— He tightened his hold on her, breathing in deeply through his nose. Her breathing had evened out, the rise and fall of her small chest so fragile beneath his palm. 

Too soon, he heard the unmistakable tread of Lestrade as he ascended the stairs, followed by his beloved’s, strong and steady. Sherlock kept his eyes closed as the footsteps came closer. The pain in his chest was real and he felt a profound sense of _loss_ that he could not explain at the thought of handing her to Lestrade. He heard a whispered conversation and then John, his John, his wonderful John was squatting in front of him again, stroking his cheek and murmuring words meant only for him. “Darling, Lestrade is going to take the baby to the station. It’s a Safe Haven location and they’ll contact the hospital as soon as possible for further arrangements.” A thought seemed to occur to John and he sucked in a breath. “Oh god. She- she’s not hurt is she? Christ, I should have checked --” But Sherlock cut him off with a swift shake of his head. John blew out a breath and stood, holding his hand out for Sherlock. “Thank god. Okay, I think Lestrade sent someone to go look for a car seat or something so they can transport her. Greg will make sure she’s taken good care of. And we can get you home to bed. You look wrecked.” 

“Catherine.” Sherlock’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. “Her name is Catherine.” He tilted his head towards the wall behind the crib, where pastel letters spelled out the name. The room froze. John’s stance shifted minutely as he looked at Sherlock, _really looked f_ or the first time since he came in the room. Sherlock could see the moment of realization as soon as it dawned in those beautiful indigo eyes. That was all it took for the pieces to click together in his own head too and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. 

“We have to stay with her, John. She’s all alone. And I was late. I was too slow and I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop him...” He folded in on himself more with each word, until he was slumped back in the chair, almost curled around the infant still sleeping peacefully on his chest. One of her hands had fisted into his shirt and was holding firmly to the silky material. He lifted one long finger and stroked the back of her miniscule hand, eyes blurring with the intense emotion of the evening. 

John was tempted to chalk Sherlock’s behavior up to exhaustion, or guilt over the events of the night, but something about the way Sherlock looked right now - lost and vulnerable, fiercely protective, eyes blazing with the same intensity he usually reserved for John - pushed all of those thoughts out of his head. He leaned down to kiss two curly heads, one dark and one light, a confusing avalanche of emotions cascading through him at the sight. “Of course, my love. Of course we’ll stay with her.” 

* * *

And stay with her they did. They brought her to the police station, after fussing with the straps of the carseat, tightening and loosening them until satisfied. Sherlock had googled how to install the seat into the back of Lestrade’s police car using the anchor straps. The ride was silent, both men watching the little girl sleeping peacefully between them and occasionally sharing weighted glances.

For the rest of the night, they made innumerable calls to try and determine if she had any other relatives. The young couple did not have a will, nor did they have any immediate family, it seemed. In between calls, they held her, sometimes standing up to rock and sway if she fussed, singing and humming. They took turns dozing off, heads drifting onto shoulders, gentle kisses pressed to foreheads. 

Just before sunrise, Lestrade stumbled out of his office, bleary-eyed and frustrated that the Dancing Devil had gotten away yet again and left behind two more young victims. His chest ached for the little girl and he wanted nothing more than to go home and hug his own children, though neither of them would fit against his chest like they used to. Trudging to the break room, he rounded a corner and stopped short when he spotted the men slumped in the hard plastic chairs. John’s left hand was curled protectively around the little girl’s back where she slept on his chest, peacefully naive. His other arm was tight around Sherlock’s back, the dark curly head resting on John’s shoulder. Lestrade paused to watch them and was struck by how _right_ they looked together. Like a family. He cleared his tight throat and glanced at his watch, for the simple act of averting his moistening eyes. He felt someone’s gaze rest on the top of his head and straightened up, noticing the sparkle in John’s eyes, shining in contrast to the dark bags underneath. John sniffed and his mouth tugged up into the barest hint of a smile, genuine but weary. 

“Isn’t she beautiful, Greg?” He whispered thickly. “I don’t think we can say goodbye. I don’t think we _want_ to.” Greg nodded his agreement and slipped away, squeezing John’s shoulder as he passed. He knew they would work it out, whatever they decided. Even though their life and their relationship was far from average, he couldn’t think of any two people who were capable of more love than John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. 

When Sherlock woke an hour or so later, the sun was just peeking through the windows of New Scotland Yard, washing away some of the tragic violence of the night and bringing with it the gentle golden promise of a new beginning. John and Sherlock locked eyes, and with the briefest nods, made the biggest, and _easiest_ decision of their lives. The proper calls and paperwork would be sorted out later, but for now, they would bring their new daughter _home_. 

Later that evening, the three of them snuggled on the couch. They fit together so perfectly, it was as if they had always been. Sherlock sighed and stretched his long legs out onto the coffee table. 

“John, what do you think of Catherine Rose?" He nudged John’s knee to catch his attention and glanced up at him with wide, soft eyes. Hesitant. "Rose... because there were roses blooming, just outside her window. I could smell them.”

The corners of John’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at his new little family. “Catherine Rose.” He tested the name in his mouth, felt the way it caressed his lips as it slipped past. “I’ve always loved Catherine. Should we keep it just as is, or change it, do you think?” 

Sherlock hummed, thinking. 

“What if we called her by her middle name? Like you. Rosie? Would you like that?” 

At Sherlock’s surprised exhale, John lifted his hand and traced his cheekbone with his thumb, curling his fingers against his jaw. Over the top of her head, they kissed. It was sweet and slow; a promise, a declaration, the surprising chance at an important new adventure. 

“Rosie.” Sherlock whispered reverently. Catherine Rose Watson-Holmes tilted her chin up, an open-mouthed, gummy smile lighting her little face, and her dads could not imagine anything more beautiful in the entire universe. 

**Author's Note:**

> And thus... canon-defiant Rosie was born! :)


End file.
